Drink Unto Thee
by Thorne Scratch
Summary: Laguna and Kiros ring in the season with fireworks and fruit baskets. Yaoi.


Title: Drink Unto Thee

Summary: Laguna and Kiros ring in the season with fireworks and fruit baskets. Yaoi.

Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all characters. The concept of "Hynelight" belongs to Harpy.

__

Wassail, wassail all over the town!  
Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown,  
Our bowl, it is made of the good maple tree;  
From the wassailing bowl we'll drink unto thee

~Gloucestor Wassail

Laguna was an optimist. But even he knew enough to realize the outcome of this situation didn't bode well.

"Laguna, that is not beer."

"It's not that different." He defensively held the bottles to his chest, still cold from the outside air, and wondered if he could outrun Kiros and Ward while still holding onto the purchase. "Cheaper, too. And more variety. One of them's beer, it's just not what we usually have."

Kiros did not seem overly impressed with his thrift. "Variety because you just let a vendor sell you all of the dregs he would normally pour down the drain." He reached forward and tugged one of the bottles from Laguna's grip. "You'd be better off using this to clean your gun than drinking it."

Reluctantly, Laguna let him take the rest of collection of bottles, a motley and dusty array ranging from half full to ones with only an inch or so sloshing at the bottom. He flopped in the tattered armchair and blew on his fingers briskly, scowling. "Tell me again why we can't stay in the regular hotel? They make the drinks _for_ you there."

Ward, taking up more than his fair share of the one bed, laconically replied, "Because this was all we could afford."

The seat of the armchair sagged beneath him, to the point where he wasn't much higher up from the ground than Kiros was, as Kiros crouched and rifled through their packs. "Theoretically," Laguna said, "we still could have gone to the hotel. We could have stayed in the bar area and just not spent the night in the rooms."

"Laguna, theoretically, most people who lose all the gil in rigged Triple Triad games and bring back the wrong alcohol are smart enough not to draw any more attention to themselves than they already do." Kiros sat back on his heels. "All right. There." 

He had lined the bottles up in a neat row and rummaged his tin mess mug out. Ward pointed to his own pack lying near Kiros, and Laguna watched the familiar process as Kiros put Ward's mug next to his own. He looked at Laguna impatiently. "Give me your mug. Ward, the bottle's in your pack."

"You're not going to throw it at me, are you? Because you've got your own to do that with." The armchair really was very low. If he slouched all the way down, stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, getting up looked like a physical impossibility. It certainly _felt_ that way to him.

"_Theoretically_," Kiros began, threateningly, and he hastily reached over to his pack and found the mug. There was a small dent on one side and flecks of some unidentified substance bonded to the bottom. He thought they might be leftover remnants of dinner from two nights ago, but they might as well have been cement, from all that he failed to scrape them off. He tossed it to Kiros, who caught it deftly and went back to almost filling all three from some of the bottles that might or might not be beer.

There was a place on his forehead, right over the bridge of his nose and between his eyes that itched. He wondered if he had brushed against some kind of plant back in the forest area to cause it, remembering the tingle of the air as though something invisible was quietly passing overhead. It didn't feel like a normal rash.

On the bed, Ward removed the plain glass bottle from the bottom of his pack almost reverently, shaking it gently to see the quarter bottle of amber liquid left in the bottom. He tried to hand it to Kiros, who shook his head. "You've got steady hands. You pour."

Laguna leaned forward in the chair to watch. It squeaked. He hoped it was the springs and not a particularly ambitious rodent that had decided to upgrade from a hole in the wall to the chair. "That took over three months in the still behind camp back in Trabia. Why does Ward get to carry it in his pack when he carries the heaviest weapon?"

"Heaviest weapon. Speaks for itself," Ward replied peacefully. "I haven't fallen down any hills lately, either."

"It was a shortcut," he said, mildly miffed. "Hold on. If we're going to do this right, I've got a gil to use." He dug the last few coins out of the pocket of his pants and handed two to the other men, keeping one for himself. "Okay, then. Who's first?"

"Your booze, Laguna. Go for it." Ward settled back, capping the whiskey.

Laguna twisted around as far as he could, closed his eyes and threw hard, waiting for the ping. When nothing came except for a startled noise from Kiros, he opened his eyes and turned. "Did I miss?" 

"You didn't exactly _miss_," Kiros said dryly, "but you missed the _bottles_."

"Oh. Oops?" He dug for another gil, peeked carefully, and threw with a little less force. This time there was a satisfying ring of metal on glass and Kiros hoisted a dusty green bottle in the air triumphantly, before filling the rest of Laguna's mug with the contents. "Okay. Ward?"

Ward turned his back, threw his coin and hit a silver flask with something brown inside; Kiros managed to strike a clear bottle with something that might have once been Trabian vodka. After Ward had gone back to the bed and Kiros was leaning against the side of the armchair, they all clinked mugs and examined each drink in solemn anticipation.

"Happy Hynelight," Ward said solemnly. "Good luck for the coming."

"Better be good luck. We're down to drinking Wendigos in Deling's cheapest motel on Hynelight." Laguna shook his head. "Can't do worse than that." He took a deep breath, tipped it back, and swallowed. Somewhere, amid the devotion of his attention to the fact his throat was on fire, he heard Ward coughing in short explosive bursts, very much like the way his own gun sounded. 

Kiros was laughing. "_Hyne_, the looks on your faces…" He lifted his own cup. "I think I won this round." He was already setting up the bottles again as he sipped.

The second gil toss netted him a another green bottle, Kiros a blue bottle, and Ward stayed with his first. His head was swimming a little and the room seemed warmer.

Outside, Laguna could hear voices in the streets, laughter winding all the way down the road. With some difficulty, he got to his feet and wandered to the window, trying to put words to the taste of the drink and watching lights go bobbing past as children ran with newly bought lanterns. 

Someone unseen was roasting pork and hawking cuts of it in a high reedy voice that smacked of Timber origin. He touched the tip of his tongue behind his two front teeth, considering. Sharp but rounded. Thin but covering the entire inside of his mouth. Acrid? Maybe.

The windowsill creaked a little as Kiros joined him, still holding the clear bottle from his first drink. Wordlessly, he accepted the clink of Kiros's bottle to his own mug and drank again. "Hey, man," Kiros murmured. "Lookin' around?"

"Yeah," Laguna replied, and leaned a little into the warmth of the shoulder next to him. Abysmally drunk over some damn rejection slip from a magazine editor, he had once told Kiros that looking for the right words was like walking in a dark room, trying to find something important, and not sure of where the furniture was. Kiros could fling all the mugs and sharp words that he wanted, just for the fact he hadn't made the obvious comparison between Laguna's own grace or lack thereof. And had let him sleep the hangover off the next day and covered for him in drills.

It was good to be friends with people who would let him get away with letting the soup boil over while scribbling bad analogies and phrases on scraps of paper but wouldn't hesitate to make him scrub the pot out afterwards. It was… dependable. Kind of nice, really.

Maybe it was just the alcohol.

Acrid. Acid. Sand in liquid form, but that was glass. Hyne on high, it was more potent than he thought. "Falling over the furniture tonight," he added, and Kiros made a short noise of assent.

They stared out the window together while the holiday night blurred around them, above the sights and sounds and smells. "This isn't bad," Kiros finally said, thoughtfully tapping his cup against the sill. "All things considering. Tomorrow we can draw our payroll and switch hotels."

"Real food." These words came out with satisfaction. "No mice. Real beds."

"Pretty singers," Kiros said, and elbowed him slyly.

"Shut up," he muttered, but with no real heat. He fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, opened the box, closed it again again, and absently placed it on the sill. Too much damn crap in his pockets. He was picking up things unconsciously again, not realizing why he was doing it at the time and later finding them useful. It was like someone else drove his instincts sometimes.

Before he could put them back in, he heard a rustle of cellophane and looked down to see Kiros's hand close over the pack. "Share?"

"Go ahead," Laguna said automatically. He paused and raised an eyebrow, something he'd been practicing secretly for a while. It came out rather nicely, if he did say so himself. "I thought you didn't smoke."

"You _shouldn't_ smoke." Kiros replied, and pulled out a matchbook with the motel's logo on it. "Don't see it stopping you."

"All famous artists do," Laguna said, throwing off the same vague explanation as he always did. That was familiarity; the deftness of Kiros's hands cupping the match and the pale halo of issuing smoke around Kiros's head was not. He watched, fascinated. "What's gotten into you?"

Kiros inhaled and then released, long, slow, and so easy that it hurt a little to watch. The cigarette was very white between his fingers. "I should ask that of you, moping by the window." He coughed and tried to cover it the second time he breathed out, his throat giving a violent hitch, and Laguna felt better.

The words came slowly. "It's just… weird, you know. Nothing's the same. Different place to crash tonight, everyone's out for Hynelight instead of in bed, you're _smoking—" _He broke off to mock-glare at Kiros and then continued. "You had to have felt it too when we were out there in the forest, man. It felt like someone was watching us the whole time. And they didn't really like us."

Kiros nodded and the bright spark of the cigarette swooped. "Yeah. Something, anyway."

"…And I don't feel like drinking anymore." Laguna slumped and picked long curls of flaking paint from the wood.

"Well that's certainly a first," Kiros agreed around another pull on the cigarette and a small, three-cornered smile.

He wondered what it would be like to take the cigarette and put his own lips around it. It was something he could have done easily earlier and he wondered why it seemed so strange now. That place on his forehead itched a little more. Laguna started to scratch and then stopped.

"Ward's the only normal one here." Reflexively, he turned to wave at Ward and his hand froze in midair.

They both stood in mutual shocked silence before Kiros walked over to their makeshift bar, searched for a few seconds, and then hefted the silver bottle. "Hyne," he said with mild awe, "I wonder what Ward got?"

Laguna watched, also impressed. "I've never seen him flattened by two drinks before. This night goes down in history. I'm never letting him forget this. Ward, the light-weight snuggled up to a pillow."

"So says the man who once told me tearfully after three damn beers about how at the age of six he accidentally flushed his goldfish down the toilet when it was still alive," Kiros snorted. And incredibly, he did the smile again and tilted his head back just a little. "So let's go out."

"I did _not_ cry when I told you that, and it was six beers instead of three and—what?" He stared at Kiros and especially the smile. "Come again?"

"We-- Kiros and Laguna. Go-- leave the room. Outside," Kiros replied patiently. "Place not inside. Big space. People. Buildings. Celebration. Distractions for Laguna. Peace for Kiros."

"Ward?" Laguna asked, but he was already grabbing for his jacket and scooping up Kiros's as well.

"Ward doesn't look too upset," Kiros said, not without amusement, and put out the cigarette on the windowsill decisively. He flicked the butt outside and took his jacket. "We won't stay the whole night out. Just to take the edge off you." 

"Yeah, yeah." Scooping out a handful of loose change from his pack, he looked over to see Kiros draping a blanket over Ward and then bending over to search the ground for something, before fastidiously gathering up the coins they had thrown at the bottles. Fussy bastard. 

Kiros caught his eye. "We need every gil we can find after your little adventure earlier," he said dryly. 

"Very funny. Let's go before the people here decide to offer you a stand up routine," he said and tried to herd Kiros towards the door before there could be a change in plans. 

Kiros made protesting noises but allowed himself to be herded. The night was just shaping up to be full of surprises. 

Five blocks, two wrong turns, and a shared slab of gingerbread later, they came upon the main bulk of the celebration. The festivities were peaking in the area they finally reached, just on the borders outside the city. Clots and trickles of people gradually formed crowds around scattered bonfires and discussing politics, the supposed location of their children, which vendors to buy from and who to avoid, and the fireworks that were scheduled to start in a few moments.

He caught these last words and immediately grabbed Kiros's arm. "We're staying for the fireworks. No excuses."

Kiros pulled for escape but not, as Laguna triumphantly noted, very hard. "I'm not stopping you, just leave my arm in its socket." When he released his grip, Kiros massaged the joint with exaggerated care but smiled. "Where do you want to watch from?"

"Not here," Laguna replied, and started to push through the throng, making for the trees. Kiros jogged behind him, administering excuses, placating gestures, and the occasional returned insult to the parted masses.

"You know," Kiros called as he realized where they were headed, "Fireworks are meant to be seen in the sky and that's best viewed on open ground. I hope you realize that."

"I know a place," he called back, and hoped that it was true. Running felt unexpectedly good after the warm stifling room and the too-close flesh of the crowd, cool wind whipping at his face and stripping off the film left on his skin from the touches of strangers. Behind him, Kiros had quit calling and was now just laughing.

Perhaps if he had kept his mind on his destination rather than Kiro's laughter, things would have been different. Maybe not. All in all, it probably was one of the better things he ended up falling into but it didn't quite seem so at the time. He was so caught up in managing to stay ahead of Kiros that he failed to notice that the ground beneath his feet had suddenly ceased to be, loose loam crumbling away.

There was only time for a brief, strangled squawk and some fruitless pinwheeling of his arms before Kiros barreled into him from behind. Laguna lost what little balance he had almost retained, and they both were sliding down a slope of clay, pine needles, and rocks.

Rather a lot of rocks, really.

He landed partly on Kiros and mostly on a root. Above him, pine trees stretched dark green towards the sky, creating a little hollow at the bottom of the slope. It was somewhat damp and exceedingly uncomfortable and Kiros was telling him in a low, steady voice exactly which appendages he would be losing if he didn't move them right away.

Maybe Ward had had the right idea all along. Breathe in, breathe out. No words for the colors exploding behind his eyes and the exact way it felt to have someone's knee buried in his solar plexus. No words at all. Breathe in. Breathe out. At least the itch was gone.

"Fuck," he finally said mildly. Then, experimenting with being able to vocalize again, "Sorry."

"Shut up, Laguna," Kiros said. From beneath, he clawed himself to a sitting position and stared accusingly. "It just figures. Shortcut, right?" There was almost no time to gape before Kiros pushed Laguna back down and then kissed him. 

Kiros's lips were cold but the inside of his mouth was warm and it tasted like gingerbread, traces of smoke, and a little bit of alcohol, sour-sharp but very good. "Oh," Laguna finally managed to say. This all made perfect sense somehow. "Oh," he repeated, and he thought that so far he really was quite bad in coming up with the right words.

"Oh," Laguna said, this time to see if he could get Kiros to echo it. Even if his mouth didn't know precisely what to do except smile stupidly, his hands seemed to be taking initiative. They fumbled through layers of damp, clay-smeared clothing and looked for warm spots to coax. Kiros suddenly arched then pressed against him and he guessed that he had found a good one.

Kiros didn't quite say 'oh,' but he did suck in his breath and then release it, much like he had when smoking the cigarette. A low sound filled the sky and a heavy vibration suddenly ran through the ground. Above, the pine trees shivered and the first fireworks burst across the sky to paint it red and gold with light and motion.

The ground moved beneath them and they moved together and it was warm and cold at the same time. The pine needles had piled up deeply beneath the protection of this hollow and he could smell them, mingled cool green-brown with the earth and the air and… Hyne, that was _good_.

It shouldn't be. It shouldn't be this good, damp and dirty and shivering despite the proximity. There was a rock beneath his ass and he could see goosebumps on Kiros's arm. But at least the itch was gone and he was getting to scratch a different one. Maybe it was the very surrealness of the whole thing, or maybe Kiros's use of blades had taught him how to use his hands in really fucking fantastic ways and whatever it was or wasn't, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Everyone called him clumsy but there was something to be said for not-quite rhythm, and just being able to touch nice and slow, then a little quicker. Good to be with someone you knew better than anyone else in the world. They'd cover each other's backs in battle, knew each other's stances and motions, could read intent in the move of a muscle-- it was almost like sharing bodies… 

"Yeah. Shortcut," Laguna said one last time and stroked his hand down the warmest spot, the best spot he had found. That was all it took, really. He saw the tendons cord briefly in Kiros's neck, saw Kiros open his mouth and close it soundlessly, saw all the signs and knew them. Less than thirty seconds later, Kiros shuddered against Laguna in of something other than chill, bit his shoulder, and then there wasn't just mud on his hands anymore. 

It was kind of satisfying, anyway, to render Kiros speechless.

Kiros lifted his head after a moment. "Well," Kiros said, and so much for the speechlessness. "So," Kiros said and then his mouth flashed in a grin and headed south. 

The shifting of weight let him shove and wriggle enough to get off the rock and onto the relative softness of the pine needles. From very far away, Laguna could hear voices carried by the wind, the cheers that followed each explosion. There was probably a better view on the open ground, like Kiros has said. But he wasn't sorry.

Words were not possible to hold onto. They tumbled through his head without pause and Laguna didn't try to stop or encourage. It was enough to lie propped on his elbows and stare at the bronze curve of neck and the neat braids and the color sprawling across the sky.

When words changed solely to sensation, he didn't fight that either. Laguna kept his eyes open and stared at the sky, humming a little. Kiros once said he was tone-deaf but it sounded just fine. There was the melody in his throat and singing through his veins, the taste of Kiros and the entire evening in his mouth, Kiros's hair beneath his hands. Train whistles and people laughing, the smell of pine and far-off smoke and rain yet to come, and the fireworks, the fireworks spreading across the sky and behind his eyes when he finally closed them and joined the jubilee.

The celebration must have been winding down. The fireworks were over by the time they both lay still on the pine needles. The smoke made lighter grey patterns on the deeper darkness before the wind wiped the sky clean again. 

His forehead tingled and then the sensation retreated as easily as the smoke had, quietly deferring. It was as though someone touched him on the shoulder in a crowd and moved on.

Laguna nudged his head against Kiros's hand and Kiros stroked his fingers down over the place on his brow where it had itched before. Kiros's hand felt the same way it always did, even if somewhat cold and with mud beneath the fingernails. Above them, the stars were finally emerging from behind the last wisps of smoke.

"Do you believe in fairies?" Laguna asked absently, watching the stars. Twinkle was a fun word to use. He held it in his mouth, lightly, before dismissing it. 

Kiros stopped adjusting both their clothing. "Laguna," he said not unkindly, "you just completely fell over the couch with that one." The way Kiros smoothed his collar afterwards and let his hand slip down to brush one collarbone took away any sting.

Laguna shrugged. "Just asking." He caught Kiros's hand in his own and licked the knuckle, tasting salt and a little dirt. The great outdoors was not as conducive to sex as the romance novels made it seem.

"Fairies," Kiros said again, and smiled in a brilliant flash of white teeth in the night. Laguna smiled back in shared…. What? Love? Affection? Just simple being, he supposed. 

And there was no need for words at all.

***

Time passed, as did the Hynelight season. The sun returned and life went on.

It wasn't fairies after all. By then they had discovered far more fantastic things, sorceresses and knights and girls who reflected the whole of time back through their eyes and boys with the faces of dead wives.

Saving the world. Who would have thought?

Love came as well, from different hearts and it was no greater or less than any previous love. No regrets, anyway. Through it all, they had each other's backs. The camaraderie never really went away, although things changed.

They say wishes made at Hynelight might come true.

***

Laguna was an optimist. But he knew better than to answer the knock on the door on the morning of the day he had marked in red on his calendar. Some of his worst nightmares revolved around it.

He waited, still half-suspended in a warm pool of sleep beneath the blankets, stubbornly refusing to emerge. Familiarity surrounded him: quiet ticking of the bedside clock, soft hum of air blowing through the ceiling vents, hint of lemon from the soap the sheets were laundered in. If the knock were real, maybe they would go away, assume he was showering, or jerking off, or dead, just something. _Anything_. If he lay still long enough, he could assume that it was a dream. If nothing was heard after five, four, three, two--

"Open the door. My hands are full."

Damn.

There was a muted scuffling sound on the other side of the door, a beep as the locks disengaged, and a whoosh of air as the doors slid back. He pulled the sheets over his head and took refuge beneath the pillow as well. This would be bad.

"Laguna. You're not fooling me." 

He didn't endorse cowardice as a rule. But sometimes it was better to be thought of that way, than to be alone and bravely face the terror by himself. At least, this way, he had friends following in order to yell at him afterwards about cleaning up his own messes.

That was rather good philosophical thought for nine in the morning. He thought, sleepily, that he should write it down for later.

"All right, my man. We'll do this the hard way." 

Laguna heard muffled footsteps moving away and his bedside table creak in an ominous manner. There was a brief pause and he was almost daring to hope that maybe it would just be a pitcher of water this morning, or really obnoxious music or--

The world exploded around him as hands grabbed his right leg and most of the blankets and he went ass over elbows off the bed to the floor, flailing helplessly and yelping. "Kiros! For Hyne's sake you didn't have to--! I could've cracked my head or something…" 

"You're fine. Hyne favors drunks, small children, and presidents who lie in bed longer than their aides." 

As he tried to sort up from down, he heard the footsteps walking to the bedside table and then returning. Someone prodded him through the layers of blanket none too gently and Laguna braved emerging. He looked up blearily into what seemed like half of a market stand that was, curiously enough, speaking in Kiro's voice. "No. _No, _Kiros."

"Yes," the bright assortment of fruits and flowers replied ruthlessly, and fell back to the bedside table with a dull thud. Kiros stood up from behind the array and distastefully toed away a stray mango that had fallen out.

The smear of colors burned even behind his eyelids and Laguna fell back with a groan, curling into the sheets up again. "Go away."

"No, I won't," Kiros said even more ruthlessly, "Get up and appreciate this, because I'm sure I had to break several important laws of physics to get it up the stairs to you."

"This is Esthar. We break the laws of physics on a daily basis." Laguna hesitantly surfaced, looked full on into the horror, and buried his face in his hands. "You promised. You promised after last year that you would make him stop. You said that would be my gift and I don't care if you were drunk when you said it."

"General Caraway," Kiros said determinedly, "has kindly sent you--"

"A monstrosity," Laguna interrupted and eyed the green spiky fruit on top of the basket with something akin to fascinated horror. It looked like it would have be a fairly decent weapon in some of his past bar fights. "Like he does every Hynelight. Cheap bastard."

"--a fruit basket in light of the season," Kiros continued darkly, and glared, daring him to interrupt. "And this year, I will _not_ write the thank you note for you." 

It would probably be unkind to bludgeon Kiros with… whatever that thing was, after he had carried it all the way up. It would also involve getting himself into a more upright position.

"He also," Kiros added, "hopes to see you after the week to discuss both incorporating Esthari technology into the Deling public transportation system and your son's intentions towards his daughter."

No court would convict him. Would they? He was the president, shouldn't that count for something? But the look in Kiros's eyes quailed him sufficiently to the point of getting off the floor and sitting on the bed. "What do you want me to do?" he asked meekly.

"You could start," Kiros said, "By eating some of this. I don't know where the hell we're going to put it. All the refrigerated parts of the kitchen are filled with the festival foods they're going to distribute and these things spoil quickly." He fished a small silver knife out of the basket and set it down on the bedside table.

"With that?" Laguna shook his head. "I need something bigger. Like, intimidation tactics, you know? That thing looks like it could gut me on its own." He took a deep breath and winced. "Or kill me with its smell. Are you sure it's not spoiled already?" 

"It's a durian. They're supposed to smell like that." Kiros waved a hand at the basket. "Just pick something. Knife. Fruit. Eat." 

Laguna took the knife and the first piece of fruit that he put his hand on, which turned out to be a grapefruit. Using one hand to brace and sawing at the rind with the miniature knife, he wrestled with it morosely, feeling pale juice run sticky-tart over his fingers and the tabletop. The grapefruit was resisting with all its considerable strength and he was beginning to think that he shouldn't eat it on the grounds of admiring the sheer tenacity. Nothing should be that yellow on the outside and that pink on the inside, looking like--ouch, the grapefruit fought back in self-defense. _Dirtily_. This was just shaping up to be a morning of pain.

"Stop playing," Kiros said still grumpily, but with a shade of amusement now. 

Being the president meant that he shouldn't have to put up with snide remarks, let alone malicious fruit attacks. "Ouch," Laguna said, still rubbing at his eye and squinted in pain. "Did you see that? That wasn't an accident. I'm going to be assassinated by a malicious piece of fruit. It's a hostile take-over."

Kiros idly picked through the basket for favorites. "Caraway isn't smart enough to plan a workable assassination, don't you remember? Guavas, papayas, kiwis…" His brows lifted in mild surprise. "Kumquats. He went all out on this one." 

Laguna sucked the juice off his own fingers and winced. He had forgotten how much sugar he'd always needed on the damn things. "What happened to normal things like apples and bananas? Or just sending a card?"

Shrugging, Kiros stopped prodding the oranges for soft spots and dug deeper. "Here. Assassin-free."

"It doesn't matter. Caraway still hates me," he muttered in defeat, although pleased to see the grapefruit replaced by a non-threatening cluster of grapes. "He's sending me lethal gifts." The grapes were dark purple with a dusty-pale patina on their skin. He pulled one grape from the vine, rolling it between his fingers. It could be poisoned.

Kiros glanced around the room absently, looking for something else to complain about, but apparently finding nothing. "Caraway still doesn't understand how you ended up the president of one of the most influential cities in the world. Frankly, I don't understand it either."

Deciding that nobody went to the trouble of poisoning individual grapes, he popped it in his mouth and bit down. Sweet, dark, and-- oh hell, they weren't seedless. He spat the pips out into his hand and retracted any kind thoughts about Caraway immediately.

"Ward like any of these?" he asked, as he tried to take the orange that Kiros was peeling and got smacked for his trouble. "He could finish the whole basket in a day." Laguna tried for the orange again, easier on the taste buds than the grapefruit. And probably on the eyes as well, he sourly reflected.

Kiros slapped his hand again, shoved his shoulder, and grabbed the durian, waving it threateningly. "So help me, Laguna, I'll use this."

"You'd just be playing into Caraway's hands. Traitor. And if that's not evidence of Caraway trying to kill me then I don't know what is."

"Laguna, you wouldn't know an assassination plot if it jumped up and bit you on the ass. You're too friendly to everyone," Kiros said. Rather meanly, he thought.

He faked a grab for the orange and then went for the durian instead-- carefully. "Here, I'll prove it. I bet there's a bomb or something." The little knife was still lying on the bedside table. He grabbed it and hesitated, not sure of where to begin.

"You're going to do it wrong. Like this." Kiros folded his own hand around the knife and carefully cut through the fruit from top to bottom, in between the spines. It fell apart in two halves with a unappetizing sucking noise. "This is the right way. Traditional. Here, try some."

Before he could protest, Kiros produced a spoon from out of thin air, scooped up some of the innards, and shoved it in Laguna's mouth. As he figured spitting it back out on Kiros would probably mean more pain than it was worth, he kept his mouth closed. "Hmrphoss," he said thickly through a mouthful of durian. He swallowed and tried again, surprised. "Hey. Kiros. It's good."

"That's why you should _listen_ to me more often."

"I know someone who's not going to get a bonus this year," Laguna grumbled and grabbed the spoon for another chunk of durian.

"Speaking of which, did you send Squall a present?" Kiros asked, with real curiosity. "I noticed you didn't have tape in your desk and I figured even Ward couldn't have tangled the ribbons that badly."

Laguna nodded. It had been one of the few of countless gifts sent out that he'd actually chosen himself, wrapped, and written the card for. "A week ago. Photos, mostly. Some of the things from… you know, Winhill."

"Raine," Kiros said, more of a statement then a question. 

He nodded, swallowing around the durian and putting the spoon down. "Ellie took them with her when she left a couple days ago. She was going to spend a few days with him. She promised to… tell him, you know. In case he doesn't want to read the card or anything, if he's not ready for it. Ellone said she'd be back in time to celebrate."

"I see." Kiros gazed off into space. "I was wondering where she's been these last few days."

They sat in silence, and Laguna ate durian and watched the square of winter-thin sunlight on the floor ripple, pale, and then renew as clouds chased across the sun. Kiros propped his chin on one hand and stared at the fruit basket, probably already composing a thoughtful, politely vague, and politically correct note to Caraway. "Are there going to be fireworks tonight?" Laguna finally asked.

Kiros looked up, startled out of thought. "I think so. Later on, right after your speech."

"I'm giving a speech?"

"You give a speech every year, Laguna."

He frowned. "I was hoping they'd cancel it this year. I mean, the world's been saved. Sort of. There's no more need for morale-boosting."

"But there is need for public celebration."

"The public can celebrate all they want. They could probably do it even better without a speech from me. You promise that there's fireworks?"

"Would it kill you to memorize a sheet of paper full of words? Most writers can do that. And yes, there really are fireworks."

"Good," Laguna said, with a great deal of satisfaction. "No one will be listening to me in that case."

"You're still going to have to make the speech," Kiros said flatly "And you really should be directing all the business they're discussing in the conference room."

"Kiros, the only thing they want to know is whether they should hang lantern lights or icicle lights along the palace's main balcony. I say neither because honestly, no one cares about what the main or minor balconies look like, lights or no lights."

Kiros tried to look disproving, failed miserably, and gave up. He fell backwards to the bed, one hand pressed to his forehead. "Hyne, I know. I think I should have encouraged you to write that proposition to abolish the concept of the Esthar Hynelight Decoration Campaign."

"See, not all my ideas are bad ones. Stay for a while," Laguna said, patting the bed. "It's not safe to go out yet. If you stand still for more than ten seconds, someone runs up and drapes you with a string of lights and a bow."

Kiros cocked an eyebrow at him. "And do what?"

"Play cards. Eat fruit. Put a dent in the case of scotch that Ward's got." Laguna did his best leer. "Make merry."

"There are things that still have to be done," Kiros replied with amusement. "Like write that damn speech you're giving." He stretched out as lazily as a cat, closing his eyes again. "Maybe you should convince me."

He aimed a spoonful of durian at Kiros's mouth. "Bet they won't have any food in the conference room except stale pastries." 

Kiros opened his mouth and swallowed. "Yeah?"

"They'll ask your opinion on red ribbons or gold. I just want to knock some cards around." Another spoonful of durian.

"True, that." Kiros tugged Laguna to lie down as well. "What's your clincher?"

Laguna willingly sprawled next to Kiros and placed his mouth directly next to the other man's ear. "Grant your Hynelight wish. Any wish."

"Are you trying to distract me from writing your speech so you won't have to give it?"

"If I say yes, what will you say?" He blew into Kiros's ear.

Kiros reached over and smiled. "I'd say it worked."

The sunlight moved across the floor and gradually brightened. Outside, people were beginning to gather for the day's festivities. Eventually things always came full circle and returned.

End Notes: 

As stated previously, the concept of Hynelight to replace Christmas was respectfully and gratefully borrowed from Harpy. She has an in-depth and beautiful explanation of it here: http://kekkai.org/helicon/hyper/ffviii/hlight.html

The "Wendigo" drink is actually known as a Gorilla, invented by conscript soldiers fighting in bush-wars in southern Africa. It was supposed to help dull the horror of the bloodshed and battles. It is jokingly said that it worked so well that how to make the drink was, in fact, the only thing they could remember. 

To make one: Fill a pint tankard to about two inches from the top. Add an inch of whiskey, preferably the bootleg type. Turn your back to the bar. Throw a coin over your shoulder. Fill the tankard to the top with whatever bottle you hit. Enjoy, or not.

Durians are real, or so Flidget would have me believe. They are psychotically frightening fruits that supposedly look like mutant cacti, stink like dead fish, and taste like sweet, sweet pudding.


End file.
